


Ghost Stories

by rahleeyah



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21925972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rahleeyah/pseuds/rahleeyah
Summary: For Tumblr Secret Santa 2019. This one is for lakeoptimisticbenbow. When the most important job of his life comes along Lucien is forced to disappear, and only Jean knows what has become of him. The road back home for Lucien will be long and dangerous, and the separation threatens their future.
Relationships: Jean Beazley/Lucien Blake
Comments: 15
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

_6 September 1962_

"Are you sure this is the only way?" Jean asked him softly, her voice floating thin and anxious on the air between them. In response Lucien tightened the grip of his arms around her, pressed her bare skin that much closer to his own. No, he was not sure this was the only way, but it was the way he had chosen, and he felt he'd come too far to turn back now.

"I have to disappear, my darling," he whispered, her hair tickling his chin, and the soft scent of her, of them, that lingered on the bedsheets was almost enough to change his mind there and then. "These people are dangerous. If they find out who I am they will come for everyone and everything I love. They will come for you."

Jean shivered in his embrace, tucked her face that much more firmly into the hollow of his neck.

"You could let it go," she told him tremulously. "Just this once. For me, Lucien. You could let someone else handle it."

But Lucien did not believe her, no more than Jean believed herself. He could not let it go, not this case, not this time.

"It _has_ to be me," he reminded her. "The government has asked for me. They need someone who can speak Mandarin, someone who can bridge the gap between the Chinese sellers and the Australian buyers. They need someone who's been trained to fight. And they need someone who knows how to take on a legend, who knows how to live under a false identity."

 _They need me._ The Australian Secret Intelligence Service had only been in existence for a decade, and throughout that time it had remained a secret even to many of those who worked in government. But they had come for Lucien, the doctor turned soldier turned spy turned private investigator, had knocked on his door and told him that his country had need of him. Of course Lucien's initial response was to laugh in the spooks' smug faces, but then they had explained the purpose of their proposed operation to him, and he knew then that he was hooked, that they had him, that there would be no turning back.

"I owe it to them, Jean," he added then.

Beside him, around him, his wife sighed, and pressed a kiss against his chest.

"I know," she answered.

Yes, Lucien owed it to _them,_ not to the government lackeys who'd come to drag him out of retirement and plunge him once more into the murky world of international espionage, but to _them._ Someone out there, someone powerful, someone dangerous, was in the business of selling orphaned children - Chinese, Malayan, Korean - to wealthy men of insidious intent. Some of the children were adopted and raised quite nicely, some were sold as domestic servants, no better than slaves, and some of them...what happened to some of them didn't bear thinking about. And Lucien owed it to those children to find out who was behind it all, to stop them. He owed it to Li; but for the grace of God, his own precious daughter could just have easily been one of the taken. Lucien had the skills the job required, and more than that he had a desperate, burning rage within him that would not be sated until each and every last one of the men behind this heinous crime ring was brought down.

"It will only be for a little while," he told her. "A month or two, at the most. Maybe not even that long. You'll keep the home fires burning for me, eh?"

At that Jean lifted her head at last, propped her chin against his chest and looked him in the eye. There was a world of sorrow in her beautiful face, the little lines left at the corners of her eyes and lips, those reminders of a thousand brilliant smiles, thrown into sharp relief in the darkness that covered them.

"I've waited for a man once before, Lucien," she reminded him, and the grief in her voice was a terrible thing, a knife that pierced straight through the very heart of him. "And he didn't come home. Christopher made that same promise to me, and he's gone, just the same. I can't lose you, too, sweetheart."

"You have me, Jean," Lucien promised her solemnly, taking her hand and pressing it against his bare chest, just above his beating heart. "Body and soul, you have me. Always. I'm not going to war. It will be different this time, you'll see. I'm coming back to you, my darling."

Tears had gathered in the corner of Jean's sparkling eyes, but she held them back through sheer force of will, took a deep breath and then lifted herself up. The duvet fell away from her, away from them, as she settled herself atop his hips; she was naked and perfect, a goddess, an angel, every inch of her more beautiful than Lucien could have ever imagined before the night of their wedding, the night he first stripped her bare and lay for a moment staring at her in awe, and wonder, and greed. Every piece of him ached with longing for every piece of her; his Jean, and perfect, made for him, brilliant and strong and full of passion, the only woman who could ever stand beside him, understand him, the only woman he ever wanted to. She knew what compelled him to go, and despite her misgivings he knew she would not stop him, for she shared his grief, and his anger, and his fear.

"You go, then," she said, trailing gentle hands across the slope of his chest that left him shivering in their wake. "And you come home to me."

Before he could answer she bowed her head and kissed him, lips pressing, tongue searching, teeth catching against his lips, and Lucien let her consume him, all of him, let her take him over, let her rock against him as a ship on a storm-tossed sea, let her wrap him in the warmth of her, a memory to cling to in the dark days ahead, a reminder of all he had to live for. He would come back to her, for Jean was his very life, and he was nothing without her.


	2. Chapter 2

_10 November 1962_

The telegram had come for her weeks before; the time was a blessing, for it had taken her longer than she cared to admit to decipher the message she'd received. In the end, however, a bit of cleverness and Lucien's well-thumbed copy of _Madame Bovary_ served her well, and she was able to unlock the code. It was a missive from her husband, entreating her to join him in Warrnambool. He'd given her the name of a hotel, a room number, and a date, and Jean had sorted the bus fare on her own.

It was rather exciting, playing the spy, decoding cryptic messages and venturing out for salacious assignations. It was a welcome retreat from her own life, which had of late grown bleak and dolorous. The first few days of Lucien's absence hadn't been so bad; he had left for Sydney, that's what she told everyone, left to meet a wealthy client on a private case. Matthew had grumbled about Lucien's recklessness but accepted her story as truth, and life had carried on quite as normal. Jean had her new sewing circle - comprised entirely of obliging ladies from the local Methodist Church - and her books and her wireless, had Matthew shouting at the quiz shows in the evening and Alice to come round for supper, and all in all it was almost as if nothing had changed. Nothing, except the emptiness in her bed, and the fear in her heart. After a week or so, however, any appearance of domestic serenity was shattered; an SIS agent, posing as Lucien's client, phoned the Ballarat police station to complain that Lucien had never turned up.

All part of the plan, Lucien's plan; he would be reported missing, and then left to fade into nothingness. He would become a ghost, and in so doing protect Jean, and Matthew, and Alice, and everyone else from the horror of the world he'd stepped into. Jean had known the call was coming, and yet she had not fully appreciated how difficult it would be to play the role assigned to her until the moment came, until Matthew walked in the front door and took off his hat, his eyes full of grief as he broke the news to her. Matthew did not know, could not ever know, the truth that Jean carried in her heart, and she had been forced to lie to this man who was as good as a brother to her. The fear, the grief he saw in her that day was not feigned, for she ached to her very bones, worried for Lucien and eaten alive with guilt over the lies.

She'd had to give a statement to the police, had to tell them when last she saw her husband, what she knew of his plans; _no,_ she knew nothing about this man in Sydney, _no_ Lucien had not contacted her, _no,_ she did not know anything that could help them. And after that, after the initial burst of frenetic activity while Matthew and Bill and the new constable Peter and Charlie - sent to Ballarat on secondment from Melbourne to aid in the search - tore apart Lucien's life, Jean's home, in search of some clue, after all of that came the terrible, endless, hopeless waiting. Matthew no longer shouted at the quiz shows; he hardly watched them anymore, for his eyes were always on Jean, full of pity, full of sorrow. It was as if he were waiting for some sign that she might crack, that the grief of losing a second husband might break her clean in two, and he was standing by, ready to pick up the pieces.

Jean had no intention of breaking, not just yet. After all, it had only been a month, and she had that telegram to cling to, that hope of one beautiful, blissful night to be spent with her husband. She'd told Matthew she was going to Melbourne to visit Lucien's Aunt Dorothy, and though the expression on his face had told her quite plainly that he did not believe her, he did not try to stop her. It was another lie, one to add to the ever growing pile of sins for which Jean would one day pay penance, but this lie was worth it, she thought, for it would give her the chance to hold Lucien once more.

She had dressed rather carefully that day, not wanting to draw attention to herself. Her favorite old brown skirt, a bit out of fashion these days but not conspicuously so, and a faded blue blouse beneath her checked blue-and-brown coat. Jean did not know how Lucien had managed to arrange all this, and she did not want to lay waste to his plans by flaunting through Warrnambool in an expensive dress; after all, she told herself, she was spending the night in a hotel with her husband, and she did not think he would care one bit what she wore.

After she disembarked from the bus in Warrnambool a nice lad at the station directed her to the hotel, which was mercifully close enough for her to reach on foot. She walked along the streets, surrounded by people who did not know her and did not care to, and felt, not for the first time, a sense of unease settle upon her shoulders. She did not know this place and she did not know who was watching; what if Lucien had not been as careful as he thought? What if someone, someone dangerous, knew that she was his wife, what if they were watching her, even now, what if the moment she stepped through the hotel doors her entire life was blown asunder? The fear bubbled deep in her belly and for one mad moment she almost turned, almost bolted back down the street to the safety of the station. In the end hope won out over fear, however, and she kept her back straight and her chin held high as she marched right into the hotel.

She took a moment to look around her, to try to get her bearings; it was a perfectly normal, perfectly average sort of place. There was a long counter on the far side of the sprawling foyer, and Jean made to go there at once, but as she walked along it occurred to her that while she knew the room number she had no key, and she did not know what name he'd used to reserve the room. Should she go to the front desk at all, or did he mean for her to go straight upstairs, to go slinking through the corridors until she found him? He had not told her, and she found she was suddenly rather cross with him; why was he always so _reckless_?

"Hello, my darling," a soft voice whispered in her ear, and Jean spun around, her heart in her throat, her hand lifting as if of its own accord, intent on dispatching the man who had snuck up behind her and slung his arm around her waist, but she needn't have worried, for as she turned her eyes fell on him, on _Lucien,_ and all of her fears vanished in a moment.

"Hello, my love," she answered, and in the next breath he was holding her, his arms wrapped tight around her, her face pressed hard into the hollow of his neck. He was wearing a finely cut suit - though it was black, instead of his customary blue - and he had shaved his beard, but she would know him anywhere, and the sensation of his strong arms wrapped once more around her left her weak in the knees with longing.

"I have missed you so much," he whispered, pressing a kiss against the top of her head, but then he was pulling away from her, smiling down at her in wonder. The foyer was too open, too exposed, and Jean knew she could not simply leap into his arms as she longed to do, could not snake her hand around his neck and pull him down to kiss her deeply, and so she restrained herself - only just - and reached up instead to cup his cheek, brushing her thumb across the smooth skin of his jaw.

"No beard?" she asked him softly. He looked younger without it, but Jean didn't care for that one bit; somehow he did not seem like her Lucien without his neatly trimmed beard. There was a scar on his chin she'd never seen before, silvery and just _there_ beneath his bottom lip, and she frowned as her thumb caught against it. _What else don't I know about him?_ She wondered sadly.

"Come with me," he told her, smiling, "and I will tell you everything."

And so she did, let him hold her hand and lead her up the stairs to a cozy little room on the second floor. The moment the door closed behind her they both breathed a sigh of relief; Lucien leaned across her, flipped the lock into place, and his sudden proximity, the warmth of him, the sheer relief Jean felt at having him close once more dispelled her fears, at least for a moment. There was a look in his eyes, the hopeless yearning of a child staring at a Christmas present, wishing with everything he had that a much-longed for toy might be hidden beneath the bright wrapping paper. He lingered there, close to her, looking down on her with eager longing written on every line of his dear, sweet face, and Jean gave herself over to the desires of her own heart, flung her arms around his neck and kissed him with everything she had.

For over a month she had been missing him, dreaming of him, wanting only this, only _him,_ strong arms and soft lips and a heart that was meant for her own. In the moment every question, every doubt, every fear left her head entirely, until all that was left was Lucien. They only had one night, one blessed, too-short night, and Jean did not want to waste a second of it. And so when his hands traced the curve of her spine she arched willingly against him, gave herself over to the heat and the hope of him. When he began to lead her back towards the bed she did not stop him, only encouraged him with gentle whispers and every movement of her body until they were both naked beneath the duvet, tracing one another's skin with reverent hands. _This_ was all that mattered; _they_ were all that mattered.

But even the bliss and the beauty of their love could not shield them indefinitely; there came a moment of crescendo, release roaring in her ears, her body slick and filled with him, and then the frenzy passed, and he was lying beside her, his arm flung over her back, panting.

"Oh, I've missed you," Lucien gasped at her, and Jean just burrowed herself closer against his side, suddenly cold despite the heat that had consumed them only a few moments before.

"How much longer must you stay away?" she asked him. "Everyone is so terribly worried, and I hate lying to them."

As she spoke Lucien took hold of her hand, drew it to his lips and pressed gentle kisses against each of her fingertips in turn. He did not immediately answer her, and in his silence she sensed a truth she was loath to contemplate.

"I don't know," he confessed at last, his hand still gently cradling her wrist. Jean let her thumb press against the scar on his chin, thinking all sorts of thoughts, and none of them good.

"It's proving a bit more complicated than we anticipated," he continued. "There are more people involved than we thought. It will likely be another month at least."

Jean sighed and buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, not wanting him to see how his words grieved her. The work he was doing was important, and she would never try to take him from it, but his absence left an ache in her chest, and she had tired of the bitter taste of lies.

"It's not forever," Lucien reminded her. "I will come home to you, my darling."

 _You'd better,_ she thought.


	3. Chapter 3

_15 December 1962_

"Are you sure about this, Jean?" Matthew asked her seriously as they drove along. "With everything that's happened-"

"It's Christmas, Matthew," she answered him firmly, refusing to look at him. "And it wouldn't be Christmas without a tree."

They'd had this conversation before, though never quite so plainly. Lucien had been officially missing for nearly two months and everyone - everyone but Jean, of course - feared the worst. Oh, no one would dare say it outright, but she read in the pitying looks and the stilted silences all the fears her friends carried in their hearts. They feared that he was gone, that Jean's man would not be coming back to her, that all hope was lost. They feared that Jean had gone round the bend, for how could she still cook Matthew's meals and wash his sheets and sleep in that grand bed in the studio alone, and not go mad with grief? How could she even think of Christmas celebrations, when she had lost everything, for the second time?

The truth was that in her heart Jean did not want a tree. She did not want the presents, or the lights, did not want the carols and the candlelight service at the Methodist church. The year before she and Lucien had celebrated their first Christmas as newlyweds, had decorated the tree together, laughing; the year before Lucien had kept her company in the kitchen while she produced an untold number of biscuits and cakes, stealing kisses and nibbles of those treats in almost equal measure. The year before their home had been full of joy, and now it echoed with a terrible, empty silence.

Jean had not heard from Lucien since that November night she'd spent wrapped in his arms, and though he'd warned her that might happen, that he might not get another chance to slip away from his quarry to visit her, the echoing silence left by his absence filled her heart with dread. It was not the first time she had waited for weeks, for months on end for some word of her husband, and though Lucien had done his best to assure her that she would not lose the second as she had lost the first it was becoming harder and harder to silence her fears. _No news is good news_ hardly applied in this case, she thought; surely if he was safe, if he was well, he would have found some way to reach her, with Christmas coming on, knowing how she longed for him. And yet he had not, and her fears festered, an open wound.

That, more than anything, was the reason she had finally decided to commit to celebrating Christmas properly. It would be hard, devastating in its own way to go to church, to sing the old familiar carols, to watch her friends opening their gifts without Lucien by her side, but if she should wake on Christmas morning to a house devoid of mirth, with nothing and no one to occupy her save Matthew and the wireless, she feared she might well go mad from grief. Jean had been a widow once before, and that loss had taught her that it was better to be busy than to be alone with the silence.

And so Jean had flung herself into preparations with all the fervor of the bereaved, running from her troubles, hoping that one day she might outpace them. She had sent invitations for a Christmas luncheon to Alice and Peter, and Bill and Rose, to Charlie, to Danny and to his sister Amy, even to Mattie, though she did not really expect Mattie to make the trip. She'd invited her sister Eadie, and Lucien's Aunt Dorothy, and been surprised by each of them when they accepted. She had invited both of her sons, though Jack had not deigned to answer and Christopher had told her in a voice heavy with sorrow that he would be posted abroad for the Christmas season this year, and Ruby would take Amelia to her mother's. Though she would be lonesome without her boys there beside her the house would be full of people, full of chatter, full of life - if only for a time - and Jean would be content to sit in the midst of it.

But first this, riding with Matthew, going in search of a tree. _The cripple and the widow, what a pair we make,_ she thought as she drove along; she knew what people said about them now. Oh, the whispers were not full of innuendo, as they had been when Lucien came back; it seemed that even the most pernicious of gossipers knew that Jean would not be satisfied with Matthew, after having a taste of Lucien in her arms. No this time the whispers were cloying and full of pity, people remarking on how tragic both their lives were, how _it's nice they have one another, seeing as they have nothing else. Let them keep each other company, as they fade into their twilight years with nothing and no one to love them._

"He'll turn up, Matthew," Jean said suddenly, giving in to the desperate need she felt to break the silence. "You'll see. You know what he's like."

"I do know what he's like," Matthew agreed grimly. "That's what worries me."

The road was clear and so Jean turned to look at him sharply, and the expression on his face cut her to the quick. It was anger as much as sorrow, what she saw in him now; _what must he be thinking?_ Ordinarily Matthew was not the sort to volunteer his own private thoughts, but it seemed that this time he did not intend to hold back.

"I told him once," he said slowly, "that he didn't deserve you. That if he ever hurt you, I'd kick his arse so hard he'd wish he'd never fixed my leg."

"Oh, Matthew," Jean sighed, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. "I'm sure he -"

"He had everything, and it still wasn't enough for him," Matthew continued relentlessly. "Beautiful house, stable career, good friends, a beautiful woman who loved him. And he still took on those private cases, because his ego meant more to him than his family."

"That's not who he is," Jean protested, but the words sounded feeble to her own ears. She could not tell Matthew the truth, that Lucien was risking his life to save the most vulnerable of children, that his cause was a selfless one, that being away from home caused him grief. She could not tell him this because she had given her word that she would keep Lucien's secrets, and because in her heart she feared that Matthew was right, and the call of adventure and the allure of a challenge had been more enticing to him than his own wife.

"Let's not talk about him this way," she said then. "Please, Matthew, it's Christmas."

"Right. I'm sorry," Matthew answered her, and they continued on, in silence.

Far away, across the water, in a dingy bedsit in Hong Kong, Lucien Blake sat playing poker with the worst men he had ever encountered in his life, and as the conversation droned on around him he spared a moment to think of his Jean, to wonder where she was, and whether she was thinking of him. Back home Christmas was fast approaching, and Christmas had always been Jean's favorite time of year. He hoped that she was happy, that she was surrounded by people who loved her, that the house was full of the smell of gingerbread, that the one he loved was _safe,_ and waiting for him. The only thing that kept him going at present, the only thing that kept him sane, the only piece of himself he could cling to was the memory of her smile, and the hope that one day, one day soon, he would return to arms, never again to leave her.


	4. Chapter 4

_25 January 1963_

Above him Jean keened, high and sweet, the rising sound of her cries music to his ears. Below her Lucien redoubled his efforts, caught the tender curve of her hips hard in his hands and drove up into her with everything he had, giving all of himself over to her in this moment, wanting only to bring her pleasure, joy, release, wanting only to seek absolution for his own sins. She was beautiful, his darling wife, lithe and lean and lovely, her face a picture of tortured ecstasy, soft breasts swaying with every movement of their bodies. The color of her hair, the slope of her shoulder, the plane of her belly, the silken slide of her skin; everything about Jean was beautiful, and perfect, and _real_ , and here with him.

Lost deep inside the warmth and wet of her, her nails scraping against his shoulders, her body the only thing his eyes could see, Lucien did not think of grief, or loneliness, did not think of blood or death or the rot of corruption. He did not think of right or wrong, or wonder at his own selfishness; lost inside the beauty of his wife, he thought only of _her,_ and was blessed by those thoughts.

"Oh, _god,"_ she panted at him, and in the next breath she had collapsed against his chest, her lips pressed hard to the line of his neck while she ground down against him, chased her release with the kind of fervor, the kind of passion, that only she could muster. In his arms she was a wild thing, and he loved her for it, for the recklessness that rivaled his own, for this heart that understood him so completely. The sound of her cries were muffled against his skin, but he did not need to hear to understand what was happening; he could _feel_ her, her sex clenching and fluttering around him, the rush of her release spurring him towards his own. Heedless, mindless, numb to everything save the pleasure of her Lucien drove himself into that release until at last he found his own, until he poured out his love for her with a low groan of satisfaction and collapsed back against the pillows, shivering and spent.

 _Christ,_ that was exactly what he needed, what he'd been dreaming of for months now; his heart was lighter than it had been since the day he left her, a sense of peace, contentment, running through him. They were sheltering in that same hotel in Warrnambool, far from prying eyes, an assignation he had arranged to commemorate Jean's birthday, though their celebrations were taking place a day late. There was nothing to fear, here; Warrnambool was a port town, and Lucien had concocted a clever scheme that would allow him to escape there every now and again. The child smugglers believed he had a contact here, and the work he had done so far had endeared him to them. They believed him, when he said he must go away on business, but Lucien was not entirely naive; he had arrived in town two days early and spent the extra time wandering around, eyes peeled and ears pricked for any sign that someone might be following him. He had found no evidence to suggest he was being observed, and thus assured of their safety he had ushered Jean into the hotel - through the back door - and up the stairs, and into this suite, where he and his wife had completely fallen into one another with desperate kisses and eager, grasping hands. He had been too long away from her, too long in the cold and lonely world, and her every touch revived him, reminded him that there was more to him than the work that sullied his hands of late.

As he came back to himself he ran his hands over the slope of his wife's back, her skin smooth and soft as silk beneath his palms, and smiled to himself, though she could not see it. She was a wonderful woman, his Jean, good and kind and clever, and he knew he did not deserve her. Yet somehow, by some stroke of fate he could not fathom, she had chosen him, and he would be grateful for that choice, for all the rest of his days. Lucien Blake did not believe in God, but he damn sure believed in Jean, and he could think of no deity more deserving of his reverence than she.

Above him Jean held him, still, her knees planted on either side of his hips, his softening length still buried within her, her face still tucked into the crook of his neck, hiding her from view. Her dark hair tickled his chin and his smile only grew; what a wonder she was, his beautiful Jean, what a gift it was, to enjoy twenty-four uninterrupted hours in her presence. And one day soon - hopefully very soon - he would return to her at last, and never leave her again.

The thought cheered him, but as the fog of arousal slowly lifted from his mind it occurred to Lucien that perhaps not everything was as wonderful as he believed. He could not see Jean's face, but beneath his hands she was trembling, and somehow he did not believe it was desire that sent those shivers coursing through her. His neck was damp, and after a moment he realized it was not her sweet kisses that had left a chill there; Jean was crying.

"Oh, my darling," he breathed, suddenly overcome with contrition at the thought that he had been so happy, while she had been weeping. Very carefully he moved them, rolled them both onto their sides and with some tugging managed to lift the duvet and pull it up over them. Jean sought out his warmth at once, her arms wrapping around him, her legs tangling with his own, the uncomfortable wetness of their joining leaving them both sticky with the remnants of desire.

"What's wrong, Jeannie?" he asked her softly.

At his question Jean lifted her head to stare at him, her eyebrows raised incredulously and tears still coursing silently down her soft cheeks.

"What's wrong?" she answered, her voice cracked with emotion. "You have been gone for _four months._ " The accusation in his beloved wife's voice pierced him sharp as knives, but Jean was only just warming to the subject at hand, and he knew better than to interrupt her with his own feeble protestations.

"I have been lying to everyone I know, everyone I love, for _four months._ Do you know what that's been like? Matthew driving me to the police station, some constable I've never seen before taking down my every word? While you've been off doing God only knows what I have been _alone._ Everywhere I go people whisper, and they're all watching me, and I hardly know how to act or what to say. Matthew thinks you're _dead_ , Lucien. He's so angry and he's so sad and it's breaking my heart…" the tears overcame her once more, but instead of retreating to the warmth of his embrace Jean rolled away from him entirely, choosing instead to sit up straight, crossing her legs and reaching up to run her fingers through her hair, a haggard expression on her face. The sheets had pooled around her waist, left her bare and glowing and glorious, even now when she was cross with him, when she was devastated and afraid and all because of _him._

"They've been so kind to me, Matthew and Alice," she said, refusing to look at him and instead fixing her eyes on her hands, now clasped tight together in her lap. "They're both grieving, but they're worried about me, and I can't tell them the truth. You have made a liar of me, Lucien Blake, and I can hardly stand myself."

The agony of her little speech left him feeling utterly bereft, struck dumb by the fury and the sorrow he had forged within his beautiful wife. It had never occurred to him, before now, how much Jean would struggle with the role that had been thrust upon her; Lucien Blake was well acquainted with lies, having served his country as a spy for many years. The lies came naturally to him; he saw it more as storytelling, than anything else, and Lucien had always loved a good yarn. It was all in service to the greater good, after all, and he had truly believed that when the work was done he would return to his home, and pick up his life as if nothing had changed during his absence.

But Jean, his beautiful, brilliant Jean, was rather less familiar with lies. She did not deal in falsehoods, did not trade in deceit, did not hold with disingenuous people. Jean valued _goodness,_ and honesty, and trust, and she lived those values, every day. In asking her to keep his secret Lucien had plunged her into the murky world of espionage, and perhaps, he realized now, asked too much of her. It was a heavy burden to carry, the weight of their friends' concern, their grief, and Jean had been forced to shoulder it alone.

It was not only Jean he had hurt, and he saw that now; he had thought this would be a short jaunt, that he would only be _missing_ for a month or so. But as the days dragged on of course they had been forced to abandon hope, Matthew and Alice - god forbid, had word reached Charlie and Danny, too? And Rose, and sweet Mattie across the sea? Did they all think him lost, did they weep for him? Did they weep for Jean, too, thinking how tragic it was, that she should be widowed a second time? He had told Jean the truth to protect her from grief, to reassure her that he was well and that he would be coming home to her, would not be lost as Christopher had been lost, but in a way he had widowed her just the same, left her to an empty bed and a house that perhaps did not seem so cheery as it had done while he was in residence.

"I am sorry," he told her then. It was not enough, but it was all he could offer her, his regret, his contrition.

Jean looked at him then, for a long moment, grey eyes wide and unblinking, and fixed on his face. The tears had run their course but some of them lingered still, streams of silver on her pale cheeks. Without a blanket to shield her her dusky pink nipples had pebbled in the cold, and she wrapped her arms around herself as she looked at him, as if taking comfort from her own embrace, and not from his.

"I know you didn't think it would take this long," she said then, the words coming out slow, and sad, and resigned, somehow. "I know you didn't mean for it to be like this. I know you're doing important work. But I feel as if everything is falling apart, and I don't know how much longer I can hold us all together. I need you, sweetheart. God help me, but I do."

"Come here," Lucien said, holding his arms out to her. It was a risk; the way she looked right now he could not tell whether she wanted to kiss him or to hit him, but in the end she relented, and came to him, let him fold her in against his chest, let him hold her tight.

"I want so much to come home to you, my darling," he told her earnestly. "But I have to see this through. I owe it to these children, to help them, to save them. I am the only one who can."

"I know," Jean answered, her words muffled against his neck. "But you're the only one who can save me, too."

There was very little Lucien could say to that, and so he only held her, kissed her hair and made a silent vow in that moment to be home to her by Valentine's day. A few more weeks, a few well-placed words; he could do it, and then return at last to his home, make amends to his friends and fall asleep in his own bed, with his wife content beside him. There was nothing he wanted more.


	5. Chapter 5

_7 March 1963_

In Ballarat time was passing; Alice Harvey came round for dinner every Friday, and sometimes Peter came along, too. Sometimes even Amy came, when the promise of a home-cooked meal made by her aunt's skilled hands became too tempting to resist. Charlie had been sent back to Melbourne in January, but he'd made time to visit Jean twice in the intervening months. Sometimes on the weekends the house was full to bursting, and Jean's heart was glad of it. Not so tonight, however, for it was a Thursday evening, and the house was quiet.

Jean had made a stew on Sunday, and she and Matthew had polished it off at supper, sitting together, quietly, passing bread and butter and saying little of note. Matthew Lawson had never been a particularly loquacious man, and Jean had run out of words. She did not know how to fill this silence, how to shatter this quiet, how to speak to Matthew, and not choke on her own lies. She wanted, so badly, to tell him the truth, to tell him that she had received a postcard from Lucien just the week before, a note that said he was well and thinking of her. She wanted to tell him that circumstances were not as dire as he imagined, that Lucien was not as selfish as Matthew suspected him to be, wanted to plead with him to understand that it was not ego - or, at least, not _only_ ego - that had torn the heart from their home. She wanted, so badly, to offer him hope, but she could not, for she had given her promise to Lucien, and the vows she'd made to her husband were sacrosanct.

And so they were doomed to this, this quiet, this unnatural stillness in a house that used to echo with laughter, and music, and the booming sound of Lucien's voice. They were sitting together in the parlor; Matthew had taken up residence in the armchair, his cane propped up beside him, his hands occupied with a book. It was one of those paperback detective stories he was always reading; that was something Jean had learned about him, during the long doldrums of Lucien's absence. Matthew had a keen mind for puzzles, and when he was not occupied with cases or his quiz shows or an actual, literal puzzle - they sometimes put puzzles together in the evening, Jean and Matthew, a way to pass the time - he turned to his mystery novels, and tried to unravel the riddles before the hero did.

Matthew had his book, and Jean had her knitting. She was sitting on the sofa, her legs tucked up underneath her, with a pile of cobalt blue yarn slowly resolving itself into something beautiful. It was to be a jumper, meant for Lucien, though Jean had told Matthew it was a present for her eldest son. It would not do, to have him think that she had gone mad with hope, that a hysterical desire for the impossible drove her now. He would pity her, if he knew she was making a jumper for a husband who was gone, dead in every way that mattered. He might think she'd taken leave of her senses, might worry for her, and Jean did not want his pity or his worry, or at least she did not want more of it than she had been given already.

Perhaps it was foolish, to spend her evenings knitting that jumper. She did not know when, or even if, Lucien would return to her, did not know if it would be summer or winter when he came. She did not know if her man would come home emaciated and too thin for the garment she was making to his old measurements, or if he would come back fat and satisfied, and it would not stretch to accommodate him. She did not know if he would even have need of it, or appreciate the gift for what it was, but with every pass of her needles she poured her love, her hope, her prayers, into a jumper meant for her husband. It was an act of devotion, the work that occupied her hands; it was the only way she'd found to keep herself busy, the only piece of hope she had to cling to. One day, she told herself, one day Lucien would come home, and he would tug this jumper over his head, and it would protect him, warm him, hold him, as Jean so dearly longed to do herself. One day, she told herself, everything would be all right again.

From the armchair Matthew sighed, closed his book and reached instead for his glass of whiskey. It was a very particular glass, the one he favored; not one of Lucien's, from the drinks cart in his office. Not one of the ones her husband touched, more than any happy man should. It was an old glass, heavy crystal, a favorite of Thomas's, and unused since his death. Strange, Jean thought as she watched Matthew raise that glass to his lips; strange that he should make such a choice. It must have been deliberate, but why? He lived in Lucien's home, slept in the bedroom that had once belonged to him, before Jean and Lucied wed and moved themselves into the study; he ate at Lucien's table and drove his car in to work, but he would not drink from his glass. Perhaps some things held more memories than others.

"There's something I need to say, Jean," Matthew spoke then, and Jean's blood ran cold in her veins. Autumn had just begun but the weather had not yet turned; the days were warm and the land was green, and there was no accounting for the chill she felt, save that fear gripped her, borne of the grim determination of Matthew's voice.

"It's been six months since Lucien left," he continued, and Jean knew then that she had been right to fear. "Six months today. There's been no sign of him. We've all done everything we could, Jean, but...he got on that bus, and then he vanished. I think you know what I'm about to say."

"Matthew, please," Jean's answer was thin and ragged, but though Matthew's eyes were full of grief when he looked at her, he did not heed her pleas.

"He isn't coming home, Jean. That man...he loved you, and if he was well, if he was alive, it would not have taken him this long to send word to you. I think we have to face it now, Jean. He isn't coming home."

 _But he is,_ she thought desperately, tears springing to her eyes; _he is coming home. He must._

She understood why Matthew felt the need to say such a thing. Matthew was clever, and kind, but he was entirely practical, and under the circumstances she knew he thought he was doing the right thing. Encouraging her to face her loss, to grieve in full, to mark an end to the journey of her brief but deliriously happy marriage, and move on from the endless stasis of waiting. Her own experiences had taught her the importance of acknowledging such bitter truth; she had waited six months for news of Christopher, and when those soldiers finally came to her doorstep with their hats in their hands and condolences on their lips the full force of her grief had nearly broken her in two. But it had freed her from the prison of time, from the terrible chains of hope and fear that had left her bound and unable to move. That catharsis, that storm of weeping, that little stone she'd had installed in the plot at Sacred Heart; those things had set her on the path to healing. And Matthew, dear, sweet Matthew who was as good as a brother to her now, only wanted to help her, to guide her through the valley of the shadow of death, and once more into the sun.

But Lucien was not _dead_ , not yet, not as far as Jean knew, and she would not give up on him. She had made her promises to him, but so too had Lucien made promises to her. He had sealed his vows with kisses, had twice risked his work and his safety to see her, to hold her, had only just recently arranged the delivery of a postcard, written in code, offering his reassurances. He was out there, somewhere, her brave, strong man, her dearest love, and the promise of her devotion and fidelity kept him going, when his own resolve began to waver. Jean could not let him down, could not fail to hold up her end of the bargain; _keep the home fires burning for me,_ he'd said to her, and she intended to.

But then how could she possibly answer Matthew? If she told him the truth he would keep this secret, she knew. He would not tell a soul - save perhaps for Alice, but then, what would it matter, if Alice knew the truth? She would hardly go announcing it to the rest of the town. As far as Jean knew Alice had no friends outside the walls of the Blake house, and she seemed quite content with those circumstances. Would it not bring them some peace, Alice and Matthew, if they knew the truth? Would it really compromise Lucien's safety?

 _It isn't my safety I'm worried about,_ he had told her during one of her trips to Warrnambool. _Every person who knows the truth is in danger. I've put you in danger, my darling, by telling you, by bringing you here. What Matthew doesn't know can't hurt him._

She had not understood, not truly, what he meant. She still didn't. Was there a risk that someone might find him out, might come knocking on this door, might try with fists or worse to pry the truth from Jean? And if she told Matthew, would that add he and Alice to the list of people who would face such a fate?

In that moment it felt to Jean as if she held all of their lives in her own trembling hands. Matthew, and Alice, and Amy and Peter, Charlie and Rose, Danny, even herself; every choice she made, every word she spoke, threatened to undo them. Was this what is was, she wondered, to be a spy? Was this the burden that Lucien had carried during those dark years after the war, when he slipped unnoticed through the cracks of the world, doing unspeakable things for his country? It was no wonder, she realized, that his dreams were often tormented; he had known such horror, this man she loved. He carried so many secrets, and she was beginning to wonder if she could ever hope to learn them all, if she would ever want to.

But Lucien was not here to defend himself, to soothe her battered heart. There was only Jean, alone and lonely, faced with the genuine concern of a dear friend, faced with a terrible choice.

"I need a little more time," she said finally. "Please, Matthew. There's so much we don't know. Don't ask me to give up now."

For a moment she thought he would protest; no doubt Matthew believed that Lucien was beyond all hope, that another month of waiting would only exacerbate the eventual calamity of Jean's grief. But in the end he relented, and Jean knew that it was love that stayed his hand, the love he felt for her, the love he felt for Lucien, the love that kept him in this house, watching over her, protecting her, keeping her company. It was love that kept Matthew Lawson in that chair, and in her heart Jean feared she and Lucien were not worthy of that love, that when he found out the terrible lies they had told him he would never again look on them the same.

"All right," he said slowly. "I'll leave it alone, for a little while."

Jean wanted to thank him, but her throat was too tight to speak. And so they sat in silence, broken only by the soft clicking of Jean's knitting needles, the ticking of the clock, both of their hearts heavy with unspoken grief.


	6. Chapter 6

_11 May 1963_

"I missed you," she whispered, her hands in his hair, her thighs grasping at his hips, the silken slide of her body against his own aching hardness stealing the breath from his lungs.

 _My darling,_ he thought, but the words did not pass his lips, which was just as well; between his panting breaths his mouth was occupied with Jean, with the softness of her breasts, with the pursuit of any endeavor that would end with one of her delightful little whimpers. Warrnambool, again, the hotel, again; he was back where he belonged, safe and sheltered within the warmth of his wife's body, back in a place where everything made sense, where he could shake off the miasma of dirty deeds that haunted him and step once more into the light of love, of certainty, of _Jean._

There was no one watching him, here. There were no lies to be told, no secrets to keep, no evil men to placate. There were no whispers, no quiet meetings with spooks in dimly lit alleys. There was one bright lamp, and the beauty of his wife, her supple skin, the blessed touch of her hands. In Sydney Lucien's efforts had been met at every turn by delays and suspicions; no matter how much information he gathered, how many names he turned over to SIS, how many opportunities seemed to present themselves, the ring of child thieves remained in operation. His contacts with SIS assured him that thanks to his efforts they had been able to intercept many of those children before they came to harm, and that was all for the good, but the wheel kept turning, and Lucien remained trapped, locked in the web of lies, far from the warmth of his home, the comfort of his wife. But for now, for one blissful, too-short night he was reunited with his Jean, and he cast all thoughts of his work aside, and gave himself over wholly, completely, to her.

Perhaps it was foolish, to simply tumble straight into bed with her the moment the door closed behind them. Three times he had met her in this place, and three times they had done this, had fallen into bed and only spoken truly, earnestly of their predicament afterwards. Those conversations had been gentle, tender, were most precious to him, but they had, each time, been preceded by this, by the slaking of this desire, this moment when their bodies returned to one another, and their hearts did, too. This reminder of all that they were, all that they could be, this ritual renewal of their vows to one another, their every promise made real by the devotion of their hands, their mouths, their souls.

First this; Lucien's lips, wrapped around one of Jean's tender nipples, her gasping breaths loud by his ear. His hand, sliding over the curve of her hip, down to clench hard around the softness of her bum. Jean's legs, locked tight around his waist, pulling him into her. Jean's hands, sifting through his hair, the gentle touch a strange and beautiful counterpoint to the fever that was building at the place where Lucien's hardness nestled against, eager to once more rediscover the delights that lay in the warmth and wet between her thighs.

"I missed this," she spoke again into the silence of the room around them, all the world forgotten, burned away, until nothing remained but that one bed, and them in it. To demonstrate the truth of her words Jean lifted her hips and ground them hard against him, and a strangled groan came bubbling up from the back of Lucien's throat.

"Minx," he whispered, his voice choked with longing, his teeth nipping at her tender skin and drawing a shaky laugh from his Jean.

"If I am, then what does that make you?" she asked him, and his heart filled with joy at the sound of her teasing him, and not admonishing him.

"Yours," he told her earnestly. "Utterly," his lips found hers, and lingered there for a moment, "completely," his kisses trailed down her neck, while he caught his cock in one hand, steadied himself and prepared for what was to come, "yours," a long, low groan as he slid slowly, slowly into her. Jean's back bowed in a graceful arch, the breath leaving her on a long, soft sigh of contentment as she pressed herself against him, gave herself over to him and accepted him in turn.

"My Lucien," she whispered, her fingertips dragging against his scalp, the tips of his ears, her body soft and perfect and holding him.

"My love," he answered, and then he began to move in earnest, and they both of them lost the power of speech.

After, after the frenzied thrusts of his hips and the keening cries of his wife, after they both of them chased their bliss and discovered it tangled up together, after Jean danced off to the loo, naked and perfect and his to adore, after she returned to his arms and they snuggled up together beneath the duvet, after everything, they began to talk, as he always knew they must.

"Alice and Matthew are walking out together," Jean told him in a soft voice. She was curled against his side, and playing idly with his hand, tracing the lines and grooves of each his fingers in turn with all the casual devotion of an old lover.

"Are they?" Lucien asked, though in truth he was barely listening. Jean was safe and warm in his arms, not weeping as she had done before, and when he turned his head he could bury his nose in the softness of her hair; he wanted for nothing, in that moment.

"Not officially," she amended her previous statement. "Alice thinks there may be some conflict of interest, since she's currently the police surgeon. But he has gone to hers for lunch several weekends in a row, and I know they went to the park together. And she comes round for supper, on Fridays. Sometimes she stays the night."

"Alice?" Lucien asked, surprised and delighted and suddenly rather more engaged with the topic at hand than he had been before. "Our Alice?"

Jean hummed in confirmation, a small, sad smile playing around her lips. "They think I don't know," she told him. "I think they don't want to mention anything to me since…"

 _Since I've gone away, since they think I've died,_ Lucien thought, the smile sliding off his face. Perhaps it was grief that had brought Alice and Matthew together at last, to explore feelings too long kept hidden beneath the surface. Perhaps it was the absence of Lucien's voice and keen-eyed gaze that made them bold. Perhaps it was simply that every time they looked at Jean they were reminded of how fragile love could be, how fleeting life was, how important it was to accept what was offered, before it was too late and hope faded into memories.

"I'll be home soon, my darling," Lucien said then. It was something of a non sequitor, as Lucien had not expressed any of his wandering thoughts to Jean, but she lifted her head and smiled at him softly, and he knew that she had followed the meandering course of his thoughts, that she understood him, completely.

"And when you come home," she told him, "we will be waiting for you. Though I suppose I ought to warn you. I think Matthew is going to thrash you on sight."

Lucien laughed, and tightened his hold on her, drew her closer still. "I'm sure I deserve it," he told her ruefully. "I never meant for it to be like this."

_I never meant to be gone for so long, I never meant to hurt Matthew, or Alice; god help me, I never meant to hurt Jean. I have caused so much pain, and what do I have to show for it?_

"I know," she sighed, acknowledging his words but in no way trying to assuage his guilt. "I know you didn't mean for any of this to happen, but it has. Matthew is angry, and he's so sad, and I...I miss you, sweetheart."

"And I miss you, my darling, more than I can say." Lucien pulled her in close, caught her chin in his hand and lifted her head so that he could kiss her lips. "It won't be much longer, now. I've told them I'll give them one more month, and if they don't have what they need by then they will have to find someone else. I've been too long away from home."

"Too right you have," Jean murmured. But then she frowned, her brow furrowing with worry, and Lucien stealed himself against further heartbreak. "But what happens when you do come back, Lucien? Alice has been police surgeon for all this time. Will you take that away from her? And your patients have all found other doctors. Some of them may come back, but what if they don't? And Matthew, he is so _angry,_ Lucien, what if he-"

"I'll sort it out, my darling." Lucien interrupted her less out of a certainty that he had everything in hand, and more in a desperate bid to protect himself from her questions, for he had been asking himself much the same thing and had so far been unable to uncover any satisfactory answers. What if Matthew could not forgive him his long absence, his deceit? What if there was no work for him, now that the gaps had been filled by other people? And what about Jean; what if she had grown accustomed to his absence, what if she had forgotten all the tiny things he did that made her cross, what if once he returned, permanently, to their home and their bed she found she preferred things the way they were when he was gone? Could he really abandon his life, and pick it up once more, and expect nothing to change? What would become of him, when this was through?

"Everything will be all right," he lied. In his arms Jean was quiet, and Lucien knew then that she did not believe him, no more than he believed himself.


	7. Chapter 7

_7 September 1963_

One year, now. One year, to the day, since Lucien had left her side, promised he would only be gone a month or so, promised he would come home to her safe, promised everything would be all right. One year he'd been gone; one Christmas he'd missed, one Valentine's Day, one wedding anniversary. One year, 365 days of lonesomeness, of lies, of Matthew's furrowed brow and Alice's quiet concern. Agnes Clasby looked old, now, in a way she never had done before, and Ruby was expecting Jean's second grandchild. So much could happen in a year, and Lucien had missed it all, had been far from her side, had taken her heart and her joy with him when she left.

It had been Alice's idea, that Jean throw her name in for the available council seat in October's elections. _Well, why shouldn't it be you?_ Alice had asked her earnestly during one of their regular Friday night dinners. _You're well known in the community, and your reputation is above reproach. You're clever and practical, and I would think those traits would serve a councilmember quite well._ For a time Jean had wavered; she had always considered herself to be a scrupulous sort of person, and she lacked ambition. Hearth and home had always been her forte, the work she did there bringing her more joy and contentment than she imagined she'd find elsewhere. Family was her business, and always had been. But with her boys grown and far from her side, with Lucien gone and no notion of when he might return, she _had_ found herself rather at a loose end. Though she often attended Sunday service at the Methodist church Jean still didn't feel quite at home there, and so she had not taken on a role within the congregation as she had done at Sacred Heart. Matthew did not make nearly so much mess as Lucien had done, and he did not call on her often for counsel. There was so very little for her to _do,_ these days, and government did sound rather exciting. It would be a chance for her to get more involved in her community, and it would give her a purpose, and perhaps those stodgy old men could learn a thing or two from a housewife and mother about how best to organize people.

 _You have a way of keeping the rest of us in line,_ Matthew had told her wryly. _And you know what's best. You always have done. And now that you've...well...you're well-suited to the role, now. After everything._

Yes, now that the entirety of the not inconsiderable Blake fortune was at her disposal, now that she was on first-name terms with the high society hobnobs of Ballarat and not just the farmwives and butchers, Jean was well-placed to take on a public role. Marrying Lucien, becoming the lady of his house, had elevated her status in ways she had never predicted, and never asked for. It was not class or money she had been seeking, when she took his hand; it was only Lucien she wanted, only Lucien she yearned for. But now that Lucien was gone all that remained to her was his name, and she supposed she might as well make the most of it.

And so it was that on this most terrible of anniversaries Jean had spent most of the day at an event in town, designed to allow the citizens of her community a chance to see and speak with the candidates for office. Rose Anderson had taken it upon herself to organize Jean's campaign, and she had arrived at the town hall armed with leaflets and flyers, full of ideas. Jean had shaken more hands than she could count, had answered questions about roads and infrastructure and schools and public funds with a cool head and a clear vision. It was, she thought, a most invigorating way to spend the day; as the only woman currently sitting for election she had drawn a great deal of attention. Her hair had been immaculate, her clothes neat and not too showy, her smile radiant. She knew a good many of the people who stopped to speak with her, and her enthusiasm was bolstered by the well-wishes that came to her from every level of society. The election would be held in just over a month, and when Jean drove home that afternoon her heart had been full of hope.

It was a Saturday, and that meant dinner with friends, though Jean had not had time to prepare a meal. _Leave it with me,_ Matthew had said, and when she walked into her kitchen just before six o'clock that evening she found them gathered there, Matthew and Alice and Amy and Peter and Rose, each with a glass of champagne in their hands, toasting her success, while on the table there lay a pile of fish and chips, still wrapped in dripping newspaper. The smile that overtook her face then stayed with her for the rest of the evening, while the chatter of friends and the salty tang of vinegar floated on the air all around them. It was the best day she'd experienced in months, and Jean's heart was so full to bursting with hope, and with love, that she forgot, for a time, her sorrow.

But a good meal, like all good things, must inevitably come to an end. The young people left her, made their way out into the night, back to their lives, and then it was just Jean and Alice and Matthew, alone again. It did not escape Jean's notice, the way Alice lingered, and a wistful sort of sorrow settled on Jean's shoulders as she watched them from her seat at the table. _You're the hero of the hour,_ Matthew had told her, _you don't need to clean up. Let us handle this._ And so they did, the pair of them gathering up dishes and cups, dancing carefully round one another while they tidied the kitchen. They did not look at one another often, Matthew and Alice, but Jean could sense it still, the pull between them, the gentle fondness that bound them together. They were caught in the first blush of love, when every moment, every touch, was tender and precious. She remembered, all too well, how that felt, remembered Lucien's hand at the small of her back, cupping her elbow, remembered his smile, remembered the way he made excuses to stay with her in the evenings, the way he volunteered to help her with the dishes. It was a beautiful thing, this fragile, newly formed, ever changing love; it was beautiful, and she missed it, missed _him,_ so fiercely, so suddenly, that she ached with it.

"There's something I've been meaning to discuss with you, Jean," Matthew said as he stood by the sink, his back to her as he set about washing the dishes. From her seat at the table Jean could see Alice reach out, lay a hand on his forearm as if in warning; Matthew looked at her, this lovely woman who had become so dear to him, and the sorrow in his eyes made her blood run cold. They had discussed it amongst themselves, then, Matthew and Alice, had discussed _her_ and whatever it was that Matthew was about to tell her. Perhaps late one night, their heads on the same pillow, their hands gentle and reaching for one another, Matthew had spilled his heart to Alice, and she had offered him counsel, as Jean had so often done for Lucien. The thought left Jean feeling isolated, lost; Matthew had Alice to turn to, now, when he was in need of comfort and a listening ear, but who was there for Jean? Where could she go, now, when it was love she needed?

"It's been a year," he said grimly, and Jean's heart crumbled to pieces in her chest. He did not need to remind her; she had not forgotten. But she had asked him, once, for _just a little more time,_ and six months had passed since that day. No doubt he thought it had been time enough; no doubt he thought the time had come when Jean must lay aside her hopes, and face facts.

_He isn't coming home._

"Please, Matthew," Jean started to say, but he remained firm in his determination, and did not let her finish her plea for clemency.

"We love you, Jean," he said, turning to face her. "You are as good as a sister to me, and I...I want better for you than this."

 _This,_ a nebulous, all-encompassing word. _This,_ meaning lonesome, meaning frozen, meaning desperately hoping for a joy that would never return. _This,_ meaning empty, a shell of her former self, smiling in all the right places and crying in the still of the night.

"You can't carry on this way forever." _The grief will come for you, and the longer you wait, the harder it will take you._

Although rationally Jean knew that Lucien loved her, that he was alive, that he had every intention of returning to her, in her heart she feared the worst. The last time she saw him, back in May, he had promised her that his time was drawing to a close, that he would stay away no more than a month. Though she had received a note or two in the interim, assuring her that he was still alive, her man had not come home, and Jean's heart knew the truth her mind could not face. The work had sunk its teeth into him, dragged him back into the shadows, undone all her efforts to tame him, to make him hers. He was a wild thing, her Lucien, and he had given in to the call of his true nature. Would he be the same, if ever he did come home? Or would he stay away forever, having found something much more exciting, much more interesting, out there in the world? How could she have ever hoped to be enough for him, this man who had seen so much, done so much, this man who craved adventure? Perhaps he had always been desperate to leave her.

"I know," she said, and her voice trembled when she spoke. _He's gone,_ she thought sadly; the man she had fallen in love with, the man who had made this house a home, the man who had held her close and whispered promises to her and kept him, he was gone. Even if he still lived, he was not the same, any more, and she did not know what would become of them, when at last he made his way home.

"After the election," she continued. "I don't want people thinking I'm not fit for the job. After that, we'll...we'll have a memorial. I'll put up a stone." _But put it where?_ She wondered. He had been raised a Catholic; should his stone go next to Christopher's in the plot at Sacred Heart? Her two greatest loves, her two greatest griefs, two empty graves to keep one another company, one place she could go to visit them both, and lament; there was something satisfyingly macabre about the thought. But if Lucien came home, what would become of the stone? _I could leave it,_ she thought, _and go there to mourn the man I thought he was, before this horror began._

"All right," Matthew agreed. "After the election. I know it's difficult, Jean, but it's important. You need a chance to grieve."

"We all do," Alice added softly. They must have discussed it, Alice and Matthew, must have talked about how they missed him, how they felt their grief could not be shown, so long as Jean insisted on maintaining her hope. What else had they discussed? She wondered as she looked at the pair of them; was there a question Matthew wanted to ask Alice, a proposal that could not be made until the matter of Lucien's demise was settled? It would not be such a bad thing, Jean thought, if they were to wed; they could both of them live here with her, and they could make for themselves a happy home.

But oh, what if they meant to leave her? What if they meant to find a place of their own, where the corridors were not haunted by ghosts? What would become of Jean, if she were left to rattle around in an empty house, without even Matthew's presence to soothe her?

 _Oh, God,_ she prayed, _I want them to be happy, I do, but I could not bear such loneliness. Bring him home to me, please._

God did not answer, but then she did not expect him to; perhaps she had been wrong, to think her God was merciful, and understanding. Perhaps the loneliness, the isolation, the grief she felt now was her reward for thinking she knew best, for spurning the church in favor of marrying Lucien. Perhaps there was always a price for love.


	8. Chapter 8

_25 October 1963_

Another missive from Lucien, another Saturday, another bus ride to Warrnambool. The postcard spelling out the date and time of the meeting had arrived not a moment too soon; Jean's hope was wavering, her faith in her husband grown thin, and she needed, desperately, to see him again. To tell him of her triumphs - she'd won the election with a comfortable margin - and of her fears - she had told Matthew they could hold a memorial after the election and now he expected her to make good on her promises - and of her doubts - if he loved her as he said he did, why had Lucien not come home to her yet?

It was this last point that lingered, left a bitter taste in her mouth. She did not like it, doubting him. She did not like this feeling of disappointment, familiar and sickening. Jean had wanted, so badly, to believe that Lucien was more than people said he was, that she could see something in him that others could not, that he was as good and gentle and compassionate as he had shown himself to be. She had wanted, so badly, to believe in the promises he had made to her, to believe in the hope and the joy his hands had instilled her. She wanted, more than anything else, to believe that they could be happy again, that he could love her, that everything would be all right. These things she wanted with a desperate sort of hunger, and only Lucien could satisfy her, only his soft voice, his gentle hands. Nothing could bring her peace save his soft lips, and the devil's promises that tripped so easily from his tongue, and turned to ashes in the light of day.

This was her fourth trip to Warrnambool, and she was more comfortable with it now than she had been in the beginning. The city was familiar to her, even if the faces that passed her by were not. She knew which turns to take, to get her from the bus station to the hotel. She knew which door to open, at the back of the hotel, which stairway to take, where Lucien would be waiting for her. He'd given her the room number, and she knew enough of the hotel to find it on her own. If this trip was anything like the last she would no doubt find herself wrapped in his arms the moment the door closed behind her, but that was good, and right. He wanted her, still, loved her, still, would hold her, protect her, shelter her beneath the bulk of his own body. Just the thought of it made her belly churn with longing, made her pick up her pace as she marched down the pavement with her chin held high.

The first time she'd walked this way her heart had been full of fear, but Lucien had reassured her. They would not look for him here, the nebulous _they_ , the bad men he was trying so hard to bring low. If _they_ suspected him, Jean had no doubt _they_ would have come storming into the hotel already. He was right, her clever man; he always was. This was their safe place, their oasis far from the dangers of the world, and Jean treasured it.

The alleyway behind the hotel was just as Jean remembered it, clean and out of sight of the street. The exterior door was unlocked, as it should have been, and she passed through it easily, carrying a small travelling bag in her hand. She would only stay for one night, would be on the bus back to Ballarat come Sunday afternoon, and so she had no need for excessive baggage. Just inside the door there was a stairwell, and Jean took it, travelled up the second floor where a long corridor waited for her. Room 203, that's what she was looking for, and she found it just outside the stairs, ready and waiting for her.

Hope and desire broiled inside of her, set her hands to trembling; she reached for the doorknob, but it would not turn. Locked; and wasn't that strange, she thought, for the last two times she had visited Lucien had left the door open for her. An ominous feeling settled on her shoulders as she lifted her fist and knocked smartly on the door. _Tap tap tap._

A moment passed, and then another, and another, and only silence on the other side of the unmoving door.

Jean knocked again.

_Tap tap tap._

A heartbeat, two, ten, and then -

Silence. There was no one inside that room, or at least no one who could be stirred by her furious knocking.

 _Lucien, my Lucien, what are you up to?_ Jean wondered, wringing her hands in the corridor. Had he planned some surprise for her? It seemed the sort of thing he would do; as she stood there she recalled how he had found her the first time she had come to Warrnambool, how he had snuck behind her and wrapped his arm around her waist. Perhaps he meant to do so again, was even now lingering in the lobby, waiting for her. Grasping on to that thin hope, then, she marched back to the main stairwell, and straight down, her heart racing uncomfortably in her chest.

The lobby was as she remembered it, a vast, sprawling space, unremarkable and anonymous. A few guests milled about here and there, sitting in armchairs or standing with luggage. Several bored looking employees stood behind the long desk at the far end of the room. Desperately, anxiously, consumed with dread Jean searched every face, but none of them were the face of her beloved. His broad shoulders, his bright blue eyes, his soft smile were nowhere to be seen.

 _What now?_ She asked herself. Lucien had arranged the room, given her the time and the place, and he had not missed any of their previous meetings. He had always been here, waiting for her; each time he had checked into the hotel well before her, made sure everything was safe and ready for her, been there to greet her when she arrived. Where was he now? He could be brash, and impulsive, but he was not cruel. She could not imagine that he would have abandoned her without finding some way to get word to her.

 _Perhaps he's left a note,_ she realized. He would tell her, surely, if he could not make it. No postcard had reached her at home and she had not seen anything tucked into the crack of the door upstairs; _perhaps he left it at reception._

And so she turned, and made her way to the desk, trying to formulate a plan as she went. Lucien had not told her what name he used to book the room, but she could be clever, too. Just as clever as him.

"Excuse me," she said, offering a sheepish smile to the young woman behind the desk. The woman smiled at her encouragingly, and so Jean gathered her courage, and soldiered on. "I was supposed to meet my husband here, but it looks like he's out. I was hoping he left a message for me. We're staying in room 203."

The young woman checked the ledger book, and then smiled brightly. "Oh, Mr. Thomas!" she said, and Jean took some comfort in the warmth of her tone. That must have been the name he used, then; _Thomas,_ and how very apt that was. There was something comforting about it; whatever else Lucien had been getting up to, he remained, inside, himself. Her Lucien.

"Yes," Jean answered, relieved.

"He's been here several times on business, he's always been so kind to us." She was shuffling through paperwork on the desk in front of her, diligently searching for a note that Jean wished, with all of her heart, might be there. "I'm afraid there's nothing here," she said after a moment. "And the book says he was supposed to check in on Wednesday, but he according to this he never picked up his keys, and I've not seen him."

"Oh," Jean said then, the hope that had so briefly bloomed within her chest withering in a moment. "I see." But she didn't, couldn't _see,_ not really, could not understand why Lucien had not checked into the hotel, could not comprehend where he might be, or what might have stopped him getting word to her.

"I can ask the maids if anyone slept in the bed last night," the young receptionist ventured, but some of Jean's distress must have communicated itself to her, for that bright smile was nowhere in evidence. Even Jean could see there was no hope in such an endeavor; if Lucien had not collected the keys for the room, he certainly would not have slept there.

"No, that's all right," she said sadly. "Do you think I might have a key? I do intend to stay the night." _I intend to wait for him, right here, until he turns up, and god help him when he does._

"Of course," the receptionist said at once. "Only, you will have to pay for the room, Mrs. Thomas. Mr. Thomas made the reservation by phone but he didn't pay."

"Of course," Jean answered with a tight smile. "How much is it? Just for the one night."

The girl told her, and Jean paid her - Lucien had told her to travel with more money than she thought she'd need, and he had been right on that point - and then she received her key, and made her way back upstairs. She unlocked the door, stepped into the room, locked the door behind her once more, and dropped her bag on the ground.

For a moment she stood staring at that comfortable, damnably empty room. Perhaps he had only been delayed, she tried to tell herself; perhaps he would come to bed late that night, apologies dripping from his lips. Perhaps any moment the phone would ring, and that nice girl downstairs would tell her that she'd had word from Mr. Thomas, after all. Perhaps there would be a note waiting for her come morning. Perhaps circumstances were not as dire as they seemed.

 _Perhaps they're worse,_ she thought, and felt the first prick of tears at the corners of her eyes. Just one, a single drop escaping to roll down her cheek, but in a moment there came a great flood of tears, a storm of weeping, and Jean could remain standing no longer. _It wasn't supposed to be like this._ He was supposed to be here, waiting for her, was supposed to comfort her, to smile at her broadly and tell her was coming home. He was supposed to be _here,_ was supposed to make her feel that all her lies, her loneliness, her sacrifices, all the days she'd spent apart from him were worth it, so long as he was with her. But he was gone, and she did not know where, or when, or why.

She wept; she wept for herself and her shattered heart, wept for Matthew who had lost his closest friend, wept for Lucien, and all the terrible fears she held for him. She wept for her marriage, so hard won, so full of promise, now rotten from the inside out. She wept for the hope she'd lost, and all the joy she feared she'd never feel again.

But she could not weep forever; Jean had known grief before, and she had survived it. So, too, would she survive this in time. Slowly she rose to her feet, drifted into the bathroom. The tub was there, clawfooted and huge, and she turned the taps, let it fill with steaming water while she slowly stripped herself bare. On one of her previous trips to this place Lucien had held her in that same tub, his thighs cradling her, his arms wrapped around her, his kisses warm against her neck. He was not with her now, however; it was not his hands tracing the slope of her hips, pulling her knickers down and leaving them in a pile on the floor. The water was hot, scalding almost, but it could not match the heat of him, and Jean lay in the bath, shivering and scared.

From the moment he left her she had feared the worst, had feared that she would lose him. But Lucien had faith, and his confidence had given her strength. Not so now, when he was not here to prove to her that he was well. She was alone, once more, perhaps forever; if only she had known back in May that was the last time she would see him, perhaps she would have tried harder to bring him home. Perhaps she would have loved him harder, better; perhaps she would have saved him.

But she had not known, and the moment had passed her by, and now she was alone.

 _I suppose we shall have to have that memorial after all,_ she thought, and slipped beneath the water.


	9. Chapter 9

_30 November 1963_

"It's the right thing to do," Matthew said as they stood together in the shop, staring at samples of stones and lettering, the business of death quiet and somber and industrious all around them.

"Is it?" Jean asked faintly. "It doesn't feel right to me. Nothing about this feels right."

It wasn't _right_ that Lucien had left her, that she had let him go so easily. It wasn't _right_ that over a month had passed since Warrnambool, since Jean had gone to the hotel but found no sign of Lucien, since she had spent a sleepless night in a bed that felt cold and traitorous, without him in it. It wasn't _right_ that she had no number to call, no one who could help her learn the truth of what had become of it. It wasn't _right_ that she was once more waiting for a knock upon the door. It wasn't _right_ that she had lost all faith in him, this man she loved. It wasn't _right_ that she had given up hope, that she and Matthew now stood in this terrible place, contemplating purchasing a marker for a grave Lucien would never fill. Nothing had felt _right,_ not since the last time Jean had rested in her husband's embrace, but even that memory had grown cold, and lonesome now.

"The marble, I think," she sighed. Right or wrong, it made no difference. Matthew needed this, even if Jean herself wasn't ready to face her loss, to admit that she had let love slip through her fingers once more. _I'll do it for Matthew,_ she thought, and made her choice. "The white one."

* * *

Water sloshed around Lucien's ankles, cold and fetid. The ship swayed beneath him, a sickening counterpoint to the cloying smell of one washed bodies that floated in the air around him. The berth was austere, the blankets mildewed, the food barely edible. Somewhere in a corner, a child cried.

And yet, despite the bleakness of his surroundings, despite the gloominess of the grey skies overhead and the choppy water below, Lucien's heart was whole, and happy, for he was going _home._

The thing was done; at long last, the ring of child smugglers had been brought low in its entirety, their terrible operation crippled when Lucien tackled their leader to the ground, helped the Chinese officers who had been working in the shadows to shackle the man, and his whole crew with them. Similar efforts had been undertaken in Adelaide, and Sydney, and even in Melbourne, each branch of their sprawling team striking at once, and arresting every single solitary person they could get their hands on. Oh, Lucien was not so foolish as to think that no one else ever take on such a business again, but it would be a long time before they were up and running, and Lucien would play no part in their capture; his work was done, and he was going home.

Smiling softly to himself he rose to his feet, slipped and slid across the cabin to where the child lay crying. She was one of many orphans they had found in the warehouse in Hong Kong, children who could not be identified, many of whom were too young or too traumatized to give their own names. There had been a bit of a scuffle between the two governments as regarded the status of the children, and where they ought to go; Canberra maintained they were Hong Kong's problem, and Hong Kong maintained that there was no evidence of where the children came from, or to whom they belonged, and given the devastating draught they were suffering and the constant influx of refugees from mainland China, they were reluctant to bring them on. In the end it was decided that the children would go to Australia, would be taken to orphanages and adopted out from there. And so it was that Lucien had become a guardian of sorts, a protector of nearly two-dozen little charges, on their way to - hopefully - a better of life.

The crying child was perhaps five or six, he thought, older now than Li had been when she was torn from his side. She was the only child in the room making a sound, and her desolation tore at his heartstrings. Slowly he sat down on the narrow bunk beside her, and when she did not protest he carefully gathered her into his arms. The child tensed, not struggling but plainly terrified, and so Lucien began to speak to her, very softly, in Mandarin. As his voice washed over her she began to calm, and soon enough she was fast asleep, safe in Lucien's arms.

* * *

_5 December 1963_

"Shall we get a tree this year, Jean?" Matthew asked her as they sat together in the parlor after supper. The wireless was playing softly, and Matthew held a book in his hands, and Jean was knitting. She had finished the blue jumper some months before, the beautiful jumper she'd meant to give to Lucien when he came home, but now it lay nestled in paper in the depths of his old trunk, never to see the light of day. Jean had turned her hands to a new endeavor, and was currently working on a blanket for her newest grandchild, due at the end of February.

"I suppose we should," she answered quietly. "It wouldn't seem like Christmas, without a tree."

It wouldn't seem like Christmas without Lucien, either, without hope, without joy, but Jean knew better than to lose herself entirely in grief. She had walked the lonely road of widowhood once before, and she knew well its hidden dangers, its tempting devastation. It would be easier now than it had been before, to shirk her responsibilities, to retreat within herself; the first time she'd had two young children to worry about, a farm to keep. Now she had only Matthew, and she knew he would look after her, if she needed him to. She didn't _want_ to need him, however, and so she remained resolved to carry on.

After all, though she feared all hope was lost, though she had no reason to believe her husband was not dead already, no official word had come. The thing would not be done, to Jean's mind, until he was dead on paper, and there had been no knock upon the door, no letter from Canberra. Matthew had agreed to wait until the New Year to install the marker, to hold a service. It seemed important to Jean, somehow, that she put it off just a little while longer, that she and her friends be allowed one more Christmas with the ghost of Lucien before they banished him to an empty plot at Sacred Heart.

"Next weekend, then," Matthew suggested gruffly, already turning back to his book. What a dear man he was; quiet, steady, Matthew had been by her side every moment, and he had never, not once, called her fool, nor had he ever asked more of her than she give. He simply watched, and waited, and did what needed doing, and Jean loved him for it.

"Next weekend," she agreed.

* * *

_18 December 1963_

"Nearly there, boss," the young sailor said as they sat together, shoveling their barely tolerable dinner into their mouths.

They were _nearly there;_ the weather had been unpredictable, the seas choppy, but they were due to make port in Sydney in four days' time.

"Just in time for Christmas," the lad added, a bit wistfully.

"Is there anyone waiting at home for you?" Lucien asked him. It was a difficult business, eating on a ship that rocked and rolled with the waves, and the task was made harder still by young Ming, who sat on Lucien's knee. They had been inseparable since that first night aboard ship; of the various sailors and SIS officers who kept watch over the children it seemed that Lucien was the only one she trusted, and she never stepped beyond his reach. For Lucien, who had so missed the bright, happy company of his beautiful daughter for decades on end, her affection for him was a precious gift, and one he accepted gratefully. And yet his heart was full of fear for her, fear of what would become of her when they docked in Sydney and she was taken from him. Another child lost; it did not bear thinking about. But Ming was not his to keep, to love, to raise in warmth and happiness. Her path would lead somewhere else, and he could only hope it would be a happy road.

"Nah," the young man said sadly. "But I'm sure there's a girl somewhere who could keep me company."

Lucien had been too long a soldier, too long a spy, to be affronted by the crassness of the suggestion; he recognized it for what it was, a lonely young man who knew only one way to find the connection he so desperately needed, so deeply craved, when Christmas was coming and there was no home for him to go to. And, mercifully, Ming understood not one single word of English, and so Lucen did not need to worry about her little ears hearing things they ought not.

"You?" the lad asked.

A smile so wide and bright it nearly pained him bloomed across Lucien's face then.

"My wife," he said, and just the sound of the words, the feel of them on his lips after so long without her, filled his heart with joy. _My wife, my Jean, at home and waiting for me._ There was nothing Lucien wanted more than to go to her, to walk through the door of his home and find Jean inside; no doubt she would be cross with him, for missing their last appointment, for sending no word, but he hoped - would have prayed, if he still believed - that she would forgive him when she saw his face at last, when he proved the truth of all his promises, and came home to her.

They would dock in Sydney on the 22nd of December. From there the children would be taken one way, and Lucien another. The powers that be would need their answers; there would be reams upon reams of paperwork to fill out, questions to answer, loose ends to tie up. As much as he might hate the delay Lucien understood that it was necessary, that he would likely be stuck in Sydney for a day or two at least. It would give him the chance to find out what was to become of Ming, however, and next to Jean that little girl's safety was his primary concern. As soon as he knew that Ming would be well-cared for he would turn his feet towards home, and Jean.

And if luck were on his side, he'd be there just in time for Christmas.


	10. Chapter 10

_25 December 1963_

It had been a beautiful, terrible day. A calm day, a day full of peace and the laughter of friends, a day made nigh on unbearable by one glaring absence. The Christmas before they had all of them retained some hope; Lucien had only been gone a few months, then. Now, however, now they all believed him gone. Even Jean had lost her hope; there had been no sign of him, no word, no letter, and in the absence of certainty she had lost her faith. What hope was there cling to? He was gone, and Jean was bereft without him.

 _Bereft,_ that was the word they used, a word that meant _without,_ a word that meant loss, and grief, and hopeless emptiness. A word for people like her, people marked by what they lacked. And even on this most joyful of days, when Jean had been surrounded by her friends, by love, she remained _bereft,_ set apart from them, for she was _without._ Without Lucien, without hope.

Alice was lingering; no doubt the good doctor had no intention of making her way to her own bed tonight, but was waiting for Jean to go to sleep before she slunk off to Matthew's room. It was a gesture born of a misplaced sense of courtesy, Jean knew; they did not flaunt their relationship, Matthew and Alice, and did not want to by their very presence remind her of all that she was _without._ And yet she did not want to thank them for this kindness; in truth she wanted to stomp her foot in frustration, for she did not want to slip quietly into the studio, to fold herself into a bed where she was never meant to be alone, and yet now always would be. Jean wanted to sit in the parlour with a glass of sherry and her knitting and the wireless, and she did not want to do it with Matthew and Alice close at hand, casting worried glances at one another. The matter would have to be dealt with, and so Jean decided to give this gift to them; it was, after all, Christmas.

"Don't let me keep you," she said, her eyes firmly on her knitting. "There's no need for you two to sit up all night with me."

"Oh, I'm not quite ready to call it a night," Matthew said carefully. Across the room Alice sighed, and Jean fought the urge to throw her hands up in frustration.

"Matthew, we're all adults here," she said archly. "I think you and I both know that Doctor Harvey isn't going to be leaving. So why don't you two just go...enjoy your evening? Don't worry about me."

Five years before Jean would never have even entertained the thought; she would have frowned at them both in disapproval, perhaps even suggested that it was getting late and it was time for Alice to make her way home. Five years before her sense of right and wrong had been ironclad, and she had not doubted, even for a moment, that the church's way was the only way. So much had changed, in such a short span of time; Lucien had come to Ballarat, had blown through that house like a wrecking ball, had set Jean ablaze. He had reminded her what it was, to love wholly, completely, desperately, had reminded her of the sweet taste of joy. His loss had reminded her just how fleeting such happiness could be, and how important it was to reach out and grab hold of love, before it slipped away. Body and soul he had changed her; freed her from her prison of shame and grief, taught her how strong, how brave she could be. Even without him she was changed, and she would never be the same again.

"Jean," Alice started to say, but Jean just waved her hand.

"There's no need for embarrassment. Off you pop."

There was a moment's pause, as both Matthew and Alice deliberated with themselves, but in the end desire won out over prudence. Matthew rose slowly to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane, and held out his hand to Alice. She hesitated for a moment, casting a concerned look at Jean, but in the end she relented, and took his hand.

"Merry Christmas, Jean," Matthew said to her softly, and then they were going, making their way slowly down the corridor to the bedroom that had once been Lucien's, to the place where Matthew now slept. In her heart Jean was happy for them, truly; they deserved this chance to be happy, to be held, deserved whatever piece of love they could steal for themselves, and on Christmas besides. And she was relieved to be alone again, left with her thoughts and her knitting, memories playing like a film reel in her mind. Memories of Lucien at the piano, dancing her round this parlor, memories of Lucien's hands trembling as he held the engagement ring out to her the first time. Memories of kisses, and softly whispered promises, dominoes and sherry glasses, memories of whiskey and Lucien's voice whispering _my darling._ The memories were alive in this place, and Jean loved them.

Giving up all pretense of knitting Jean cast the yarn aside, gathered her legs up underneath and cradled her glass in her hands, staring at the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. Perhaps she had been wrong, to think ill of Lucien; she had thrown her rancor in his teeth, once, tired of the lies, tired of the fear his absence had wrought in her. It had been so easy to give into doubt, to believe that Lucien had left her for selfish reasons, that he was not the man she wanted him to be. But in this room, on this night, the dark warm and all encompassing, the Christmas tree so bright, the faint sound of his voice echoing in her mind, Jean came to an epiphany of sorts. It was not one thing or the other; the color of Lucien's soul was no more black and white than Alice and Matthew's own predicament. He was both, somehow, was the man she loved and the spy she'd never met. He was selfish and selfless, determined and changeable, impulsive and some ways and reliable in others. He was everything, and he was hers.

Had she not fallen in love with him when he was broken? Had she not heard him drunk and ranting at a society event, and felt compassion for him, thought _here is a heart that understands my own?_ Every ill deed he had done, every mistake he had made, every moment of recklessness, had led him to her arms, and she loved him for it. She loved him for the lies, and the violence his hands had wrought, for he would not be her Lucien, tortured and endlessly compassionate, if he had not ever known the taste of blood in his mouth. She could not love the man who danced with her in the parlor and hate the man who told lies for her country; they were the same, inextricable from one another.

Perhaps she had been wrong, to give up hope so entirely; it has been two months since that fateful day in Warrnambool. Perhaps he just needed a bit more _time_. The spooks would not tell her if he was well, but surely, she thought, if he had died some grey-faced man in a wrinkled suit would come to her door, and tell her the truth. Surely, she thought, if such a terrible thing had come to pass, they would want to put an end to it, to close the book on Lucien's troubled life. And yet no one had come.

Perhaps, she thought, it wasn't too late.

For the first time in months Jean felt a bit of hope begin to spring within her heart; the hope of Christmas, she supposed, the hope of a fool who believed in goodness, who believed that sacrifices would be rewarded in the end, who believed in love. But to be _hopeful_ was better than to be _bereft_ ; _keep the home fires burning for me,_ he'd said to her once, and though she knew of late she had let down her end of the bargain she resolved herself, in that moment, to light the fire of hope once more, and wait to greet her man with open arms and a heart that loved him, all of him, every bit.

It was, after all, Christmas.

The hour had grown late indeed, and Jean began to think longingly of her bed. She was tired, and unaccustomed to idleness; she had grown weary of staring blankly at the tree. Perhaps it was time to rise, to slip into the studio, to shed her clothes and wrap herself instead of one Lucien's old shirts. They no longer smelled of him, not after the year and more he'd been gone, but they were _his,_ and they held him when she could not. It would not be such a bad thing, she thought, to sleep-

_Tap tap tap._

In the still silence of her thoughts the sound of someone knocking upon the door reached her as if from a dream. She had no notion who might be calling; Matthew and Alice had long since gone to bed, and all their other guests had gone out for the night. If someone had urgent need of the Superintendent or the police surgeon surely they would have called, and not driven straight to her door. In the dreamy quiet of a warm Christmas night Jean did not feel fear; her friends were close, and she was not alone, and the world looked brighter to her now than it had done a bare few hours before. It was curiosity, not terror, that caused her to rise, to slip down the hall on silent feet.

The knock had apparently not been loud enough to wake Matthew - or to pull him away from more interesting pursuits - and so the corridor was empty as Jean reached the door. She unlocked it, and then slowly, very slowly, opened the door, exercising some caution though her mind was full to bursting with questions. _What if it's Jack?_ She thought, her heart beginning to pound. She had invited him for Christmas, but he had not answered her, and it would be just like him, she thought, to show up late, without any warning. There was a smile already forming on her face as she swung the door wide, but in the next heartbeat her eyes landed on the mysterious knocker and she remained frozen, for a moment, the breath stolen from her lungs, her entire body paralyzed and numb from shock.

_Lucien._

He was thinner than when she'd last seen him, and he'd grown his beard back, though it had gone grey with time and shaggy from inattention. He was wearing a simple white shirt and black trousers, a bit dusty as if from travel, a battered leather case sitting on the porch by his feet. His eyes were blue and bright and fixed on her, desperate and hopeful, his hair grown so long that it had begun to curl around his ears. _Lucien,_ and _here_ , and _home -_

A strangled sob slipped past her lips, and all her fears and all her doubts shattered like glass, falling crystalline and sharp around her.

"Jean," he said, his voice low and choked with longing, and the sound of it spurred her into action.

She took a single, trembling step towards him, reached out to cradle his cheek in her palm, the scratch of his beard against her skin seeming to prove the truth of him, come to stand upon her doorstep - _their_ doorstep - come home to her at last. He pressed himself against her hand and his eyes closed as if in bliss, but he was shaking as she touched him, his nerves no doubt just as frayed as her own.

"This is a dream," she breathed into the quiet. Only a few minutes before she had been thinking of him, thinking how she loved him, how all she wanted in the world was to have him back. Had the longing fractured her mind at last, sent her howling into oblivion? Had her own desperate heart conjured this vision of him to soothe her into dreams.

"No, my darling," he said, turning his head to press his lips against her palm. "I'm here. I'm _home."_

The way he spoke that word _home,_ love and hunger and yearning dripping from his tongue, the warmth of his lips against her hand; that was what decided things for her, more than anything else. He was _real;_ she could see him, touch him, hear him, _smell_ him, and that was enough for her. No dream could feel like this, this love so deep and so strong she felt as if her heart might burst from her chest, this soaring sound of hope ringing in her ears, the word _home_ falling from his lips in a voice that even her memory could not conjure.

"Oh, my love," Jean cried, and with those words she flung herself hard into his arms. Lucien did not falter beneath her sudden affection; those strong arms reached out at once to embrace her, his hold on her so tight he lifted her clean off her feet, her arms flung round his neck, her hands in his hair, holding him tight to her. Strong, and hard, and solid; he was everything, and holding her.

"I have missed you so much, my darling," his words came out choked with unshed tears, the sound of his voice muffled against her hair.

"Lucien," she gasped, tears sliding down her cheeks, relief crashing over her in waves; she was trembling from head to foot, and grateful, so bloody _grateful_ to have him here with her that her legs would not hold her. But there was no need to worry; Lucien kept her steady, kept her close, kept her from falling. He had saved her from the darkness, as only he could, and he sheltered her now, standing there on the doorstep.

"I love you," he answered, and as he spoke his hands slid down the curve of her back, and she knew then what he wanted, and did not protest. With an ease borne of practice Lucien caught hold of her, and lifted her as if she weighed nothing at all. Jean went with him, wrapped her legs around his hips and crossed her ankles at the small of his back. Her eyes were on a level with his own, now, and his arms were strong and steady, and so she reached out, and caught his face in both her hands, brushing the tears from his cheeks with her thumbs.

"Are you home to stay?" she asked him between panting breaths, trying to hold the weeping at bay just long enough to hear the truth from him.

"I am home forever," he answered her, and there was nothing else to do in that moment but kiss him, and so she did, eagerly, earnestly, desperately. They were both of them laughing, crying, clinging to one another, the press of their lips and the nip of their teeth a blessing, a gift, a reminder of all the joy they had shared, once, and all the joy they might have again. He was _here,_ her Lucien, devil and angel both, and all the questions, all the answers, could keep. For now, in this moment, she wanted only him.

It would seem his thoughts had run the same course for Lucien began to move, then, abandoned his case on the doorstep and walked instead into their home, kicking the door closed behind him while Jean laughed, and kissed him harder. His steps were sure and unfaltering as he made his way down the corridor, ferrying them both to the blissful sanctuary of the studio, their bed, the one place in all the world that belonged only to them. It was not the first time he had carried her along this path, and Jean knew it would not be the last.

His kisses were harried, unrelenting, and Jean accepted them readily, stroked her tongue against his bottom lip and smiled when he whispered her name, his breath warm and sweet against her skin. It was no difficult thing for him to open the studio door, to carry them through it and kick it closed behind him, and the moment he did Jean's tears loosed themselves in earnest. Lucien, and _home,_ and _here,_ with her, safe in the blessed stillness of her bedroom, swearing never to leave her again. Lucien all of him, the man who had left her lonely for so long, the man who had done it for the sake of those children who would never know his name, the man who had drunkenly punched Matthew Lawson in the Colonists', the man who had danced her round the parlour; she had all of him now, safe in her arms, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck and wept with sheer relief.

Gently, very gently, Lucien sat her down on the end of the bed, and then he knelt at her feet, a supplicant before a holy altar. The expression on his face was one of contrition, a penitent seeking absolution from his goddess.

"I never meant to be gone so long," he croaked, his hands coming to settle on her thighs, his eyes beseeching.

"I know, my love," she told him, reaching out to card her fingers through his hair, the last of her tears laid to rest by the way his eyes closed in bliss, in relief at her touch. "You did what you had to do. And you came home to me."

That was what mattered, more than anything else. Every other question, every other challenge they could face, could answer and overcome, now that they were together. Jean had her Lucien; she did not need anything else.

"You are my home, Jean," he told her then, and her heart sang in her chest at his words. As if to prove his point, as if he meant to find his home and settle himself inside at the first possible opportunity he reached for her then, his hands sliding under skirt, seeking the clasps of her suspenders, holding her stockings in place. Jean leaned back, propped herself up on her elbows and watched him, joy and love and desperate longing swirling inside her as he slowly, methodically began to undress her.

His touch was light, fingertips ghosting against her skin as he removed first one stocking, and then the other, pausing each time to press a gentle kiss against her inner thigh, and the sight of him before her, broad and strong and _hers_ , touching her so tenderly, bent only on _her,_ seeing her, cherishing her, loving her, only stoked the flames of her desire. When her stockings were both puddled on the ground he reached for her again, slid his hands along the length of her legs beneath her skirt, rising higher and higher until he could hook his fingers in her knickers. Jean lifted herself, and let him slide them off her, and while he was occupied she caught her skirt in her own hands, and dragged it up to bunch around her hips, revealing herself to his hungry gaze.

" _Christ,_ I missed you," he choked, and she laughed, but that laugh was turned to a whimper in a moment as Lucien leaned forward, caught her thighs in the cages of his hands and bowed his head. The first brush of his lips and tongue against her in that most tender place turned her bones to jelly, but he was only just beginning.

Oh, _god,"_ she breathed, but just as she became accustomed to the wash of his breath against her he slipped his tongue inside her and she nearly fell to pieces, unable to think, swept away entirely by him, her Lucien _,_ home at last, kneeling before her, bent only on her pleasure. Her Lucien, home at last, begging her forgiveness in the only way he knew how. Onward he moved, lips and tongue in tandem building her up and up until he shifted, and she nearly cried out in grief to think that he would leave her before his fingers replaced his tongue and his lips wrapped around the little bundle of nerves at her center and she tumbled from the cliff. She might well have been weeping; she could not say, for as her body trembled and shook his fingers thrust relentlessly inside her, curling against her, his lips working over and over her until her first climax became a second in a wave so strong and fierce her consciousness deserted her and she was left drowning in sensation alone, so sweet and so sharp, and everything she knew in that moment was _Lucien._

Still he caressed her, guiding her through until she was whimpering and begging him _please, sweetheart, please,_ though she could not say what she was asking for. Lucien seemed to know, though; he always had done, had always known just how to touch her, just what she needed from him and how best to give it to her. With a smile he kissed her tender sex one last time and then rose to tower over her, his gaze so very soft and so very open that Jean could do nothing save open her arms to him, begging him to let her hold him.

And he did, dropping his hands to the mattress on either side of her head, lowering himself atop her to kiss her sweetly, the taste of her on his tongue a blessed reminder of how closely they were joined, how they shared all of themselves with one another. She gasped against his lips, and felt the brush of his beard on her face as he smiled. Jean wrapped her arms around him, her thighs rising up cradle his hips, trying to pull him down, desperate for the heat of him, but it seemed that Lucien had other ideas. He kissed her one last time and then he was moving, reaching between them to remove peel away the last of her clothes in a frantic race, and Jean did her best to help him, though she was trembling with need of him. Soon enough his hands returned to her, kneading her flesh gently as her back arched up to meet him. _God,_ but she had missed this, the heavy weight of him atop, the warmth of him, the smell of him; he belonged in this bed, here with her. But as she pressed against him she could feel the scratch of his shirt against her tender skin, and Jean had had quite enough of that; as his lips descended upon her breast her own hands wove between them, scrambling against the buttons of his shirt. But her hands were trembling from the torrent of emotions he'd loosed within her, her fingers heavy and uncoordinated, and even that small task seemed beyond her.

Thankfully, Lucien was still in possession of his faculties; he laughed, not unkindly, at her pitiful attempt to undress him before he rose to his feet once more, and began to remove his clothes himself, Jean's eyes watching him hungrily all the while. For a moment she was starkly reminded of the first time he'd held her, on the night of their wedding, when he'd stood at the end of their bed and she looked up at him in wonder and in joy, and as beautiful as he had been then he was all the more beautiful now, now that she his beard had gone grey, now that she knew him, body and soul, knew how he could care for her, how he could touch her. He was _hers,_ as she was _his,_ two halves of the same whole, reunited at last.

In a moment he was bare, his cock proud and straining for her, and once more she lifted her arms to him, and once more he slipped over her body, nestling himself into her embrace.

His lips traced the line of her neck down towards her breast even as her hands wandered over the marks upon his back; she had traced the lines of those scars more times than she could count, knew their number and the manner of their making. They were as much a part of him as the beard upon his face, the silvery scar on his chin she'd never seen before that first night in Warrnambool, the story of his life written on his flesh. In a way she loved those scars; she hated the thought that he had endured such pain, such grief, but they were a part of _him_ , one step on the long road that had led him at last safe to their bed. In a moment his lips wrapped around her nipple and the movement of her hands against his back faltered as he once more began to ravish her, as hungry for her as she was for him. She clung to him, drowning in the wanton desperation only he could inspire, and ground her hips against him, the brush of his cock against her bare thigh drawing a whimper from deep in the back of her throat.

"Please," she breathed again, when it seemed that he was content to linger where he was; they had been too long away from one another, and Lucien seemed determined to take his time, and while Jean was grateful to know that he still wanted her, needed her as desperately as she did him, she was ready to move along. At her words his mouth released her, and in the wake of his lips she saw that he had left a mark upon her skin, and she could not find it in her heart to be cross with him. Let him claim her; she was proud, to bear his name and the marks of his love upon her skin.

With a careful hand he reached between them, dragging himself over her folds, spreading the wetness he found there and drawing a mewling, eager sound from her. Lucien might have been content to take his time but Jean was through with waiting, and so on his next pass she lifted her hips to him invitingly, and at last he gave in. With a groan he buried himself inside her, and the force of his thrust tore the breath from her lungs. He filled her so completely there was no room left for breath, for doubt, for fear; there was only this, the thickness of his shaft driving into her, long and slow and deep, and the pull of her warmth around him, desperate for everything he had to give.

"Never again," he breathed against her ear. "I will never leave you, my darling."

In the harsh light of day Jean might have doubted the truth of those words, but in the dark and quiet of their bedroom she believed him.

The rhythm he set was slow and tortuous; this was no race for release. Jean could not find the words for this, for the burning of his eyes, pupils blown dark and wide with longing, longing for _her,_ his face so close to her she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her cheek. There were not words for this love, this hope, this joy, this union of two souls, for everything she felt, now that he was home at last. In the absence of words their hands spoke for them, and promised love, and devotion never ending.

Those strong arms she loved so well supported him above her, and Jean wrapped her hands around the corded muscles of his forearms, anchoring herself to him as she wrapped her legs tight around his hips, meeting him thrust for languid thrust. She arched into him, casting her head back so that on the next pass his lips collided with her collarbone, his tongue darting out to taste the sheen of sweat there. They moved together as graceful as a pair of dancers, the soft sounds of their coupling and the beat of their hearts all the orchestra they needed. Each time he drove within her Jean was overcome with the fullness, the _rightness_ , the sheer ecstasy of him; she closed her eyes, unable to face the magnitude of the emotion that gripped her.

And still he moved, so long and so slow and so steady that she had forgotten everything else outside this room, the softness of the sheets that smelled of him, the wet, wanton sounds of their union, the force of his cock plunging into her again and again as she once more began to crest the wave of her own release. As if he could read her mind Lucien redoubled his efforts, speeding up the movements of his hips, grinding against her as he ducked his head and sank his teeth into the curve of her breast. The flash of pain was enough to do her in and she tumbled from her peak, so caught up in bliss she could only whimper, softly. Still, though, he did not stop; the fluttering of her inner muscles around him only seemed to urge him on and he shifted, raising himself up, changing the angle between them as he began to pound into her in earnest.

"Lucien," she gasped his name, spiraling into sensation as he coaxed her yet higher, to a point of delirium she had never before ascended, and above her he smiled, reckless and wild, and answered her.

"Jean," he breathed, "my Jean."

Over and over again, he spoke those words _my Jean,_ punctuating them each time with another powerful thrust until his control snapped, and the speed of his movements became too furious for his words to keep pace. Jean cried out as she broke for the final time, the joy of it so painful for a moment she thought she must have died. She could not breathe, could not think, could not move, could not even hear Lucien groaning his release as her inner walls clamped down upon him like a vise, refusing to let him leave her, ever again. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes, exhaustion and emotion having overcome her utterly, and Lucien collapsed against her, burying his face in her hair, his cock still nestled tightly inside her. He was _home,_ where he belonged, and she would never let him go.

* * *

_The next morning_

"They're still here, you know," Jean whispered to him.

The first rays of the sun had begun to glimmer behind the curtains on their bedroom windows, and she was radiant in the early light of dawn. Beautiful, and naked, and holding him, her arms and legs entwined with his own, her fingers gentle on his skin. They had slept but little, had spent the night drowsing here and there between languid exchanges of kisses and whispers of all that had befallen them in their time apart. He was so proud of her he nearly burst with it; his Jean had done _so well,_ had kept their home and their friends together, had been brave and strong as he knew only she could be. And she was a member of the council, now, and _Christ_ but he grinned every time he thought about it. She would be brilliant in government, he knew, and he could not wait to see how she would put all the old timers in their place.

Of course he had spoken of his own disastrous adventure, had told her what little he could about why the work had taken so long, the terrible things he'd seen. He'd told her about Ming, the little girl who'd attached herself to him on the ship back to Hong Kong, and how he'd been delayed a day or two in Sydney while he inspected the orphanage that was to be her home. It was clean and more cheerful than any such place he'd ever been before, and the people there seemed confident they could find a home for her, a real home, where she would be loved and looked after. Even still Lucien had nearly brought her home with him, and he could not help but wonder if he'd done the wrong thing, if perhaps it wasn't too late to go back and fetch her. A question, for later, perhaps, for Jean had endured quite enough surprises for the time being.

"What, both of them?" he asked, leaning forward to brush his lips against her shoulder.

"Yes," she grinned, and he did, too, delighted by the thought that Alice had stayed the night in Matthew's bed, with Jean's blessing. So many things had changed, while he was away; he could only hope it was all for the good.

"Do you still think Matthew will thrash me on sight?" His hands traced the slope of his back, and she shivered, and his smile grew so wide his cheeks ached with the strain of it.

"Maybe not," she answered, a bit breathlessly. "Maybe Alice will keep him calm."

"She won't want to give up the police surgeon post, will she?" Lucien mused then, as his thoughts turned to breakfast, and from there to the future.

"Actually," Jean rolled more firmly onto her side as she answered, propping herself up on her elbows and looking down on him while he tried to keep his eyes on her face, and not the dusky pink bud of her nipple peaking out at him from beneath the duvet. "I think she wants to give it up. She hasn't enjoyed the work, and it makes things complicated, with Matthew. She's said she wants to spend more time at the hospital, and if she's no longer the police surgeon, then there's no conflict of interest should Matthew choose to…" she left it hanging, but Lucien knew what course her thoughts had run. The Superintendent could not marry the police surgeon, but if Alice no longer held that post, they would be free to do as they wished.

"Do you think he will?" He had not actually seen Matthew and Alice together in _that_ way, and he was having a hard time picturing it, the pair of them holding hands and trading kisses, but then Doctor Harvey was apparently asleep in that room just down the hall; perhaps things _had_ progressed to that point.

"In time," Jean said softly. "He loves her, Lucien."

There had been a time, he knew, when people had asked the same questions about himself and Jean. Did they truly love one another, would they make a good pair, would he ever get his act together and just bloody well ask her? He had found the answer to those questions in Jean's arms, and he hoped that Matthew might know such joy, with Alice.

"And I love you," he told her, kissing the end of her nose. "What do you say? Shall we stay here all day, or shall I go out there and face him?"

"Let me get dressed," she answered, laughing. "And then we can go and see him together."

And so they did; they rolled out from under the covers and pulled their clothes back on, smiling, laughing, never beyond the reach of one another's hands. The meandering road of Lucien's life had led him back home at last, and he knew that whatever waited in store for him he could face it, so long as Jean was by his side.


End file.
